Don't Sit Under The Apple Tree (With Anyone Else But Me)
by embroider
Summary: Alfred meets someone new at the bar, and he's up for whatever challenge it takes to have some fun. 1940's swing AU drabble.


There was no greater comfort than an afternoon spent lounging lazily, like a house tabby, perched at the bar and nursing a drink. Sailors all alike congregated in the same place, a herd returning to the respectful nest. Never was there a lack of musty sea salt, sharp smoke, and the warm fragrance of alcohol in the air. It was a fragrance these men wore proudly and tiredly, day and night, while gripping onto the frayed strings of a losing war.

Nothing could replace the groove of swing in your fingertips, in the tap of your foot. Nothing replaced the hum of 'doo-baah do bah-daaah,' gentle rhythms under tongues, pressed to the tip of your teeth.

It wasn't the sound of screeching drafts from the jets above, your bones didn't quake with fear and the rumble of a bomb. It quaked with adrenaline and _life_.

"Doo-baah, do bah, daaah," on an exhale. His breath was strong with liquor like astringent, his eyes were the sea and the deepest depths. Everyone is lost in this bar, lost in the moment and in the frame of time's photograph.

"Eyes like yours deserve to be admired," he heard, thinking it was a part of the music. Until he realized it wasn't, and another sailor was situated next to him.

 _Don't start showing off all your charms in somebody else's arms_

 _You must be true to me!_

Looking over, the recipient of the complement took an obligatory (daring) drink of the other's glass. They exchanged glances, smiles warmed by alcohol, and pulses riding the beat.

"Didn't think another mate in uniform could look as dazzling as you do," this new blonde man stated, splaying out a hand. He stared at it, before taking a shake, and subsequently stuffing his hand into his lap.

"Haha, you're a real 'ol fun one, yeah? What're you doing all the way over here? You're a Tommy," he chortled, speaking with the glass in his hand via movements and taps on the table.

"I'm just off of a fleet, we docked last night, and this bar is the closest by. Trying to unwind."

"You do look like you're frazzled, a bit of sea sickness? Or is it what's in your cup?"

"I haven't slept in a while, how could a sailor get sea sick? That's like a Nazi being American!"

Another laugh shared between them at the joke. Alfred was having a blast, and this Englishman was funny. What a good night it was, and it was only Friday!

"Say, uh.. I'm Alfred. Alfred Franklin Jones. Call me Al, though," charisma shone in his face and the way he brandished medals, pins, and ribbons on the sailor cuffs of his shirt.

"Arthur, Arthur Kirkland, but you can't call me Artie."

"Fair enough, Arthur, Arthur Kirkland."

"To you as well, Alfred. Alfred Franklin Jones."

Alfred exchanged one last smile before ordering another drink, watching Arthur pull out a pack. It was surprising, not many sailors smoked anymore- their packs were always soaked. And cigarettes were hard to come back. The pack only had two cigarettes left, and the male pulled out one, fishing for his matchbox.

"What fleet are you from?"

"The Reserve Fleet. We were dispatched yesterday. It's real bad, we're-" ..he pushed the cigarette into his mouth, lit it, took a drag, and waited to feel the nicotine in his chest before continuing, "-getting railed like hell. We could use some of you Americans up in Europe for help."

"Talk to my Chief, he could square somethin' off for ya."

"I doubt it. England's navy is large, and so is the United Kingdom's, but it's a different ball game when you have fucking bombs in the sea."

"Bombs…?"

Arthur nodded, watching Alfred's smile chip away. Definitely, he thought, his encounter was with a rookie.

"Mines. Mines that are bombs that blow up ships. Are blowing up ships."

"That's awful.. What an unfair advantage!"

"Tsk." Arthur wasn't able to choke back the subsequent smile from such sugary shock, so instead it was masked by taking a chug until the golden liquid in his glass was gone.

"Say, uh, Arthur- Could I have a taste?"

"Of what? My drink? I'd have to get a refill, so-"

"No. Your smoke." His nose jutted out at the tobacco paper roll hanging off Arthur's lips. They were pink and slightly chapped.

"Aw, sure. Don't throw up all over the place, though." The cigarette was handed over, and Alfred immediately took plenty long drags. It felt nice.

"You smoke, kid?"

"Naw. Not often anymore, though. It's a hard habit to break."

Arthur nodded- out of any other sailor, this one knew it best.

Taking a draw of the smoke and collecting it in his cheeks, Alfred slowly exhaled in a small stream, puffing away like a freight train.

"Alright," Arthur snatched the item from his mouth, his fingertips brushing into the other's lips. Alfred swallowed, tasting tar, ash, and more warm alcohol. Something.. Sweet? Tea, perhaps.

Sighing in defeat, Alfred slouched, resting his temple on the wooden counter. Being completely still after weeks of mad racing and dashing was never going to be a normal custom again. Then, he suddenly came to a very, _very_ important epiphany.

He had complimented his eyes, called him dazzling. He was still sitting next to him, and they had a friendly share of a cig. Made brief contact.

Was this guy a queer?

"Hey, Arthur. Do you, like. Do you like men?" A beat of hesitation occurred before the total confrontation of the question. "I don't mean no harm or stereotypin', none of that, but.. You get the jist."

"How about you find out?" Arthur made it seem rhetorical, but he had turned- and had his hand on the other's knee. Alfred was still, his knee reacting to the brief shock of contact with a buckle.

"What makes you think _I_ am?"

"You haven't told me to go, you haven't been rude to me, and well- you look at me the way a schoolboy looks at a crush."

"I do?!"

"Mmmhm."

"Shit. Well. I guess..? I think you're.. Attractive, heh." He rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn't a bad thing to be a queer, he knew a lot of his mates and petty officers who had one or two nights with the higher ups. You couldn't wander off with a lady, so everyone has to somehow get their fix. Besides, this guy? He has tussled blonde hair, a touch of scruff, a few scars- and mysterious green eyes. They enticed the sea to come to shore.

"Alright. 20 if you actually turn out to like men."

"20..? You're kidding!"

"Everything comes with a price, my dear American friend," his hand slowly crept up Alfred's thigh. He swallowed, gripping his glass before swiveling to face him.

"50. 50 if you like it." Arthur winked.

"How about 70 if I suck?" That made Alfred's neck grow warm.

"100. 100, and we go the full way." They both shifted, almost like they were being personally tested on sexuality.

The other couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous claimstake, however, and he patted Alfred's knee.

"Better get your wallet ready."


End file.
